


Perfection

by Morimaitar



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Crime Scenes, Drama, Experimentation, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mystery, No Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Pseudoscience, Serial Killers, Suspense, Torture, Trauma, murder investigation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: Gotham has always been dangerous. It's only logical that its serial killers are more deadly than most. When the Behavioral Analysis Unit is called to apprehend a murderer, they soon find themselves in over their heads.AKA a Criminal Minds style mystery featuring the Batfam.ON HIATUS DUE TO CURRENT EVENTS - ACAB
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 40
Kudos: 86





	1. Agent Grayson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU heads to Gotham to take on a new case. Agent Grayson is forced to wrestle with the decisions of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been watching a lot of _Criminal Minds_ lately, and I just had to. I'm sorry. Well. I'm not _that_ sorry. 
> 
> This fic will be featuring all the melodramatic nonsense and lingo from the show. I'll add to the character tags as the story updates, because I don't want to spoil anything by revealing the unsub in the tags. Still, you are welcome to speculate. I'd love to hear your predictions! :)
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Semi-graphic discussions of torture and rape, descriptions of murder

* * *

_Quantico, Virginia. 0830 hours._

Dick has lived in Virginia for five years, but still he reads the _Gotham Gazette._ On the slow days he sits at his desk, fresh mug of coffee in his hands, and pores over the featured articles, then the advice column, and then the Lifestyle section. Unless the gymnastics team is featured, the sports section doesn’t interest him much—no offense to the Gotham Knights. So he usually skips that and heads straight to the obituaries. In his profession, it’s necessary to read about happy lives every once in a while.

He doesn’t get to the obituaries today. 

On the front page, bold and thick and accusatory, the headlines spell out murder: MISSING WOMAN FOUND DEAD AT THE DOCKS. There’s no picture, thank god, and the article focuses more on the woman than it on her death. Cass would approve. 

Sighing, Dick turns to the second page of the paper, his eyes landing on MISSING (CONT.). There’s a picture of the woman, Nicolette, at the bottom of the page. A blonde woman, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, smiles at some unseen thing behind the camera. She looks sweet,the kind of person to bring cookies to a PTA meeting. 

At once Dick feels a tug in his gut. It’s not that he’s unaccustomed to death—with all the cases his team’s solved, he’s long past queasiness—but there’s always a part of him that wonders how things would have been different if he stayed in Gotham. Yes, the FBI would have lost a junior profiler, but they could have found another. Gotham City, on the other hand, has a dearth of good people, good cops.

Though, to be fair, it seems all of America is lacking good cops these days. Perhaps that was another reason Dick shouldn’t have left.

“Something wrong?” Cass asks.

Dick drops the paper, looking up at his teammate. His friend. “Nothing,” he says. “Just waiting for someone to give me a direction.”

Cass nods, a smile pricking at her lips. “Consider me someone,” she replies. “We’ve got a case.”

The routine is, well, _routine_ at this point. They gather into the conference room, all of them: Dick, Cass, Tim, Duke, Jason, Barbara, and Bruce. Barbara drops folders in front of each of them, then takes her place in front of the smart screen, grimacing.

“Ready to go back?” Duke asks.

Dick shoots him an inquisitive look.

“It’s Gotham, man. Thought you knew.” 

“No, that can’t—” He stops suddenly when he peers into the folder. There it is. Gotham city, in heavy ink, rests at the top of the first paper. Quickly he flips through them all, heartbeat pounding on his tongue. The last paper, a photograph, shows him a smiling blonde woman. Nicolette.

At the front of the room, Barbara clears her throat. “This,” she says, as the picture of a young man fills the screen, “is twenty-four year-old Benjamin Millar. Eight ago he was found beside a dumpster in the East End of Gotham City.” New picture. A middle-aged woman. “Forty-one year-old Ana Consuelas was found in the Bowery four days later. And finally—” Nicolette’s face fills the screen. “Nicolette Byers. Twenty-eight. Her body was discovered at the docks yesterday morning. Preliminary M.E. report says each victim died differently: blood loss, heart failure, and drowning.”

“Interesting,” Jason says. “So he’s crossed race, gender, and age lines.”

“Socioeconomic, too,” Cass adds, flipping through her folder. “Benjamin was a transient, Ana was a rideshare driver, and Nicolette was a physical therapist.”

Bruce nods solemnly. “High-risk to low-risk victims. Our unsub is gaining confidence.”

Duke leans forward, resting his head on his hands. “If it’s a different M.O. every time, how do we know it’s the same unsub?” 

Barbara pulls a face. “All of the victims were given a numbered tattoo on their inner arm. Furthermore, they were—guard your ears, my darlings— _mutilated_ , extensively.” 

Sure enough, images of mutilated bodies pop up on the screen. Blood, bruises, burns… It is more than Dick is used to, but not enough to trigger nausea. He finds himself fixated on Nicolette’s empty eyes, the pained expression still written on her bloodied lips. 

“Toxicology also found trace amounts of modafinil in all of their systems,” Barbara adds.

“Modafinil is commonly used to treat narcolepsy, sleep apnea, and shift work sleep disorder,” Tim explains. “It’s been nicknamed as a “go pill” and has several uses ranging from weight loss to cognitive enhancement. The armed forces have actually expressed interest in modafinil as an alternative to amphetamine in missions where troops face sleep-deprivation.”

“He’s keeping them awake while he tortures them,” Duke says.

“Exactly.”

Dick peels his gaze away from Nicolette, urging his brain to kick into the proper gear. “Babs, you mentioned tattoos?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” She clicks her remote, and more pictures fill the screen. They were numbers, mostly, 002C, 002D, and 003A, paired with various simple shapes.

“Two, three…” Jason shakes his head as an exasperated sound leaves him. “These might not be his first victims.”

Bruce stands, gathering the contents of his folder into his arms. “Even so, we have no indication that he’s going to stop. Wheels up in thirty.”

On the plane, Barbara speaks to them over a video call. 

“T.O.D. just came back on Nicolette Byers,” she says. “The examiner says she was killed about six hours before her body was found.”

“When was she initially reported missing?” Cass asks. 

“Umm…” The sound of Barbara’s keyboard filters through the speakers. “The day Ana’s body was found. Tuesday evening.”

“Tuesday. That means he keeps each victim from anywhere between thirty-six to forty-eight hours,” Tim says.

Dick flips through the images of the bodies. Broken bones. Ligature marks. Dozens and dozens of cuts. And, according to the files, more wounds they could not see. “Gives the unsub plenty of time for torture,” he mutters. “Think we’re dealing with a psychopath?”

“It’s likely,” Bruce says. “Based on the unceremonious nature of the body disposal, he doesn’t feel any remorse for what he’s done.”

Tim nods. “Given the physical and sexual nature of the torture, I think our unsub could also be a sadist. He’s likely getting off on the pain he inflicts on our victims. That would explain the different causes of death. He’s experimenting with what he likes best.”

“And the tattoos?” Cass asks.

“Could be his way of keeping track of his kills, or claiming them as his own. Richard Ramirez often drew a red pentagram on his victim’s thigh and on a wall in their house.”

On the other end of the video call, Barbara looks distinctly green. “Are you guys done?” she asks. “Any longer and I’ll have to look at pictures of kittens.”

Bruce sighs. “Dick, you come with me to the police station. Jason and Tim will visit the M.E., and Cass and Duke will talk to Nicolette’s mother. In the meantime, Babara, do a preliminary search of people booked for violent crimes in which the victim was left with a permanent mark.”

At his words, both Jason snorts.

“What?”

“It’s Gotham,” Jason says. “Half its citizens have committed a violent crime, and the other half were victims. Dick and I know that. Right, Dickiebird?”

Dick rolls his eyes, ignoring him and the sinking feeling in his stomach. He pretends it is air sickness, and not regret. “It _is_ Gotham, B,” he adds, thinking, _and that’s why I should have stayed._

Bruce stares, his mouth a grim line. “Then our job just got a lot harder.”

☉☉☉

_Gotham City Police Department. 1200 hours._

Not much has changed. The weather is still depressing, with skies cool and gray as cement and a temperature to match. Everything feels heavy and slow. Dick stands on the steps of the Police Department, shivering. It’s as if the whole city is dying at once. The circumstances of his return do not help.

“Dick,” Bruce says. 

Dick forces himself to smile. “Sorry. Coming.” 

“How do you feel?” Bruce asks, when they’re safe inside the stiff atmosphere of the precinct.

“Did you ask Jason this question, or am I special?”

Bruce remains unamused. “Jason and I will talk later. Right now I’m talking to you.” 

“Right.” He sighs, taking in the familiar sights inside the building. In five years, no one moved the water cooler, or the fake plant beside the window. If it weren’t for the new carpet—a dull beige instead of a dull blue—it would seem like nothing had changed at all. “I’m just… I didn’t really think I’d come back.”

Bruce’s deep blue eyes pierce into his own, waiting. Dick wonders if he is intentionally profiling him, or if he is trying not to. None of them intend to profile each other, but it isn’t something they can turn off. Over the years, Dick has learned many things about his teammates, things he wishes he can forget. Like how Cass has to force herself not to harm the abusive fathers they drag into custody, or how Tim almost loses control around stalkers. And Jason, his brash attitude cracks whenever he speaks with victims who are homeless or young or both. 

Dick continues. “I’m fine, B. Really. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Very well. Don’t hesitate to talk to me if something comes up.” Bruce looks over Dick’s shoulder, and his face falls back into a neutral state. A familiar face is walking over to them. His hand is outstretched in greeting, his face mustached face professional if not a bit worried.

“Thank you so much for coming,” the man says. “I’m Commissioner Gordon. I spoke with an Agent Wayne earlier?”

Bruce takes his hand. “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you.” Nodding at Dick, he says, “This is my associate Special Agent Grayson. Our team is happy to help in any way that we can.”

“Agent Grayson, I remember you. You were here, what? Five, six years ago?” 

“Five, sir,” Dick replies.

The commissioner laughs. “Enough with the ‘sir,’ Agent. I believe you outrank me now.” 

Dick doesn’t laugh, but he does allow himself to smile. It is nice, seeing the commissioner again. Though the two of them never spoke during Dick’s time on the force, he looked up to the man, thought of him as a role model for what the police should be. What they could become. 

“Anyway,” the commissioner says, “we’ve got a space set up for you in the conference room. This way. Well. I’m sure you remember, Agent Grayson.”

Dick does. The precinct is large, but it’s simple. He could walk it with his eyes closed. 

In the conference room, the commissioner places files down on the table, one at a time. 

“I’ve gathered all the information from the crime scene technicians,” he says, setting down a picture of Benjamin’s body, still pressed against the dumpster. “It seems our perp dumped the bodies and took off.”

“Are there security cameras?” Bruce asks.

The commissioner pauses. “We’re checking,” he says. “Unfortunately, these bodies were left in the East End, Agent.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the city doesn’t maintain them,” Dick finished. He is suddenly grateful that Jason is not here with them. “It’s unlikely they’re still working after all these years.”

For a moment, Bruce is silent. Then, he says, “How well-known is that fact?”

“Agent?”

“Would a regular citizen think that these cameras function, or would they not?”

The commissioner pauses. “It’s likely that a citizen of the East End would know the truth,” he says. “However, the general public likely would not.”

“So our unsub could be a citizen of the East End,” Dick says.

Bruce nods. “Or someone with knowledge of city maintenance.”

“I can get you a list of people working on the city infrastructure,” the commissioner offers. 

“You can send it to our technology expert at Quantico, thank you. She’ll filter through it for us.”

Dick watches Commissioner Gordon walk out, a bad taste forming in his mouth. 

“What is it?” Bruce asks.

Clearing his throat, Dick shakes his head. He picks up the picture of Benjamin, noting how his body is only a few feet from the road. “It’s sick,” he says, “what this guy is doing.”

“Do you think you can handle it?”

“Of course I can.” 

“Good. I’m putting my trust in you.” Bruce nods once at him, almost smiling, which Dick has come to understand as the Bruce equivalent of affection. 

Quickly he turns and starts sorting through papers, pinning the important ones to a large cork board displayed in the back of the room. Faces. Maps. Details. “We’re gonna catch this son of a bitch,” he says, punching a thumb tack through a close-up of the tattoo on Ana’s arm. 002D, triangle. 

“Language,” says Bruce.

“Oh, come on.”

“We’re professionals. You can swear when you get shot.”

“We wear bullet-proof vests.”

“Exactly,” Bruce replies. With a thick red marker, he draws a circle around the three disposal sites. The docks, The Bowery, and the Cola plant. All of them, in the East End. 

Dick studies the map, imagining lines between each red dot. “Think we found our unsub’s hunting grounds?”

Bruce’s brow furrows. “According to his sister, Benjamin Millar was staying in a rehabilitation shelter here,” he says, marking a spot in black on the map. “Ana Consuelas lived here, in Otisburg. And Nicolette Byers went missing near her home in Burnley.” 

When he is finished, there are three black dots spread across Gotham City. Dick’s eyes widen.

“He’s taking them from all over the city,” he breathes, his eyes darting from the pictures of the victims. Different ages. Different races. Different genders. Training tells him that there is a connection, there _has_ to be, but no matter how hard he tugs at the strings the connection eludes him. 

“We’ll find something,” Bruce says. “We have to.”

Dick nods. They’re both thinking the same thing. This man, whoever he is, is just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case this isn't clear, the members of the team have backstories that mimic, but do not fully adhere to, their canonical histories. Only Dick and Jason are from Gotham (because, according to the show, there must be _some_ personal drama connected to the case), whereas everyone else is from various places around the U.S.


	2. Agent Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agents Todd and Drake visit the Medical Examiner's office. New information about the unsub's motives comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the dialogue. I know it's cheesy and unrealistic. But so is the show, so...
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Discussions of torture, murder, non-consentual drug use, assault
> 
> [Reggie2hood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reggie2Hood/pseuds/Reggie2Hood) drew awesome art of Jason! [CHECK IT OUT](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/57532120?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_302507176)

_ Gotham Medical Examiner’s Office. 1300 hours. _

“The victim sustained thirty-seven controlled cuts,” the medical examiner says. “They were administered mostly to the torso and thighs, though a few were made here, to the wrists.”

Jason looks down at the body on the table. She— _ it,  _ he reminds himself,  _ the body _ —is covered in thin red lines, but those seem to be the tamest of her injuries. There are electrical burns on the breasts and neck, angry red splotches against lily-white skin, as well as bruises, more than he can count, and at least two broken bones. Three fingernails on her left hand have been removed. 

“Thirty seven, 

“What kind of knife?” he asks. 

The M.E. holds up a scalpel. “The cuts are thin, hardly an inch deep. They’re controlled too. Look.” She points to one of the cuts along the wrist. 

“That’s right along the ulnar artery,” Tim says. “One millimeter to the right, and—”

“She’d have bled out,” Jason finishes, flatly. “I think we’re looking for someone with a medical background.”

The M.E. nods. “It’s likely. See these?” She points to the crook of the arm. There, multicolor bruises blossom against the underside of the skin. “I.V. bruises. The victims’ stomach contents were empty, but they were well-fed and hydrated intravenously.”

“Keeping them alive,” Tim mutters. 

“There’s more. Several of her ribs were broken in a manner consistent with CPR injuries. I found similar injuries on the first two victims.”

Jason taps his fingers on the table, mindful not to touch the body. That’s more Tim’s area of expertise, anyway. His job is to listen, to take notes, and when the time comes, to tackle the unsub. Right now they’re in stage one. 

“Is it possible we’re dealing with an angel of death?” Tim asks. “He could be a doctor, using his position as a caregiver to exert power and control over victims.”

“Nothing like killing and reviving people to get a good rush,” Jason says bitterly. Jesus Christ, the body is just  _ covered  _ in marks. His fingers tighten around the edge of the table as heat rises in his chest. He hates bruises, hates the pain they represent. 

There’s a squeak of latex as Tim pulls a pair of gloves over his hands. “May I?” he asks, motioning to the body. 

“Be my guest,” the M.E. replies. 

He leans over the head and starts prodding at the arms, the neck, the face. It is all very precise, like moving chess pieces around the board. Jason can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. 

“Was there anything else in her system, besides the modafinil?” he asks, lifting her upper lip with the long edge of a medical instrument. Jason doesn’t know which one. Maybe he should, after three years on the job, but he also doesn’t care. The Bureau hired him because he speaks Russian and served as a personal bodyguard for rich fucks in Washington. Tim’s the one with all the doctorates. They don’t need another genius. 

The M.E. exhales sharply, the imitation of a laugh. “Oh yes. Tox report showed a cocktail of ketamine and lysergic acid diethylamide.” 

“Shit,” Jason breathes. Even he knew that ketamine was rough crap. Knock-out type of crap. Date rape type of crap.

“Lysergic acid diethylamide, that’s LSD,” Tim says. “He’s making them hallucinate?” 

“It would seem so.”

“Maybe he likes his torture to have a mental component,” Jason offers. “Like, uh, mind games.”

Tim lifted up the body’s arm, examining it as a scholar reads a book. “Maybe. What kind of ink is used in this tattoo?”

Sighing, the M.E. picks up a clipboard and flips through her notes. “Best I could determine, it’s regular tattoo ink.”

“What is it?” Jason asks, because he recognizes the look on Tim’s face. It’s his thinking look. Brow furrowed, lips pursed to the left, eyes sharp and narrow. 

“Circles are among some of the oldest geometric symbols,” he says, releasing the arm. In a quick motion, Tim takes off his gloves and throws them away. “It can represent the notions of totality, wholeness, eternity, God, you name it.”

“Okay,” Jason replies flatly. 

“The same thing can be said of triangles and squares, the other shapes tattooed on the victims.” 

“Just say it, Timmy.” 

Tim shoots him a look. “There may be a spiritual component to our unsub’s compulsion.”

“So we’re looking for a sadistic doctor who’s also into symbology.  _ Great. _ Case closed. It’ll probably take Babs half a second to crack the case.”

The M.E. steps between them, as if breaking up an imaginary fight. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Agents?” she asks. 

Tim shakes his head. “No, Doctor. We’ve seen enough. Thank you.”

And then they are walking away, through wide steel doors that swing behind them. Jason does not look back. 

Outside the office, he kicks an empty can down the street, breathing in the scent of oil and dirt and cigarette smoke. A gull lands on the sidewalk in front of them, squawks dumbly, and flies off with a burger wrapper. Jason rolls his eyes. It’s so very  _ Gotham.  _

“What’s so funny?” Tim asks.

“Being back,” Jason said. And he’s not lying. Standing here, watching Gotham fall apart around him, it’s a final  _ fuck you  _ to the city that tried to abandon him. He got an education, he got out, and now he’s here again, showing off just how far he’s come. 

“Did you miss it?” 

Jason laughs. “Hell no. But it brings up memories, you know?” He looks around the street, nodding in the direction of the police precinct. “Last time I was around here, I was identifying the guy who hit me over the head with a crowbar. Fun times.”

Tim, unsurprisingly, looks as though Jason burst into song. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he does sound it, genuinely. “That sounds very traumatic. Does Bruce know?”

“Please. It only comes up every time we’re given psych evals.”

“Jason, these things are serious. Trauma can have—” 

“Oh, don’t start,” Jason says, pulling out the keys to the SUV. “We all have our issues. At least I can make fun of mine.”

“Jay.” Tim’s hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “If you ever need to talk about it, I’d be more than happy to sit down with you.”

“You know me. I don’t talk. I just let things fester inside until boom! It all comes out at once.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“Watch it, Timmy. You’re starting to sound like Bruce.” 

Tim smiles. It’s a quiet smile, as his always are, full of understanding and good will. “At least one of us does,” he says, and Jason sees something else on his face, a bit of sly humor. 

☉☉☉

_ Gotham City Police Department. 1500 hours. _

“This is what we’ve got,” Jason says, dropping the folder onto the conference table. Bruce and Dick look over, the concentration slipping off their faces.

“Evidence suggests we’re looking for someone with experience in a medical field,” Tim explains. “Possibly even a doctor, given his familiarity with CPR and intravenous treatments.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow as he flips open the folder. “CPR?”

“It would seem that our unsub tries to revive our victims.”

“Until he can’t, that is,” Jason adds.

“Wait.” Dick holds up a hand in a  _ let me think  _ gesture. “You said he has a medical background?”

“Most likely, yeah.”

Dick pulled out photographs of the tattoos. Digits, letters, and shapes in blue ink. “These look like serial numbers,” he said, laying the photos out on the table. “Like the kind—”

“—found on lab animals,” Tim finishes.

Jason watches his teammates communicate solemnity with their eyes, feeling as though he were given pieces of a puzzle without being shown the original picture. God damn it. Of course the unit chief and his two perfect profilers have a secret they don’t want to share with the rest of the class. Not for the first time in his career, Jason is reminded that he’s the muscle, and not the brains, of the operation.

And then it clicks. Medical background. Revival. Lab tattoos. 

“Hold up,” he says, raising a hand as if to better communicate the point. “You think our unsub is  _ experimenting  _ on his victims?”

“It’s a working hypothesis,” Tim says. 

“Well, what’s the point?” 

He’s met with stares.

“I mean, what is he trying to discover, or create, or whatever?”

Dick shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to find out,” he says.

“Given the extent of the torture and the varying C.O.D.s,” Tim begins, “I’d say he’s experimenting with health or healing, possibly even life or death itself. That could explain the use of the geometry on the tattoos, the circles in particular.”

“We’ll have to determine a probable victimology before we can know for certain,” Bruce says, a grim look on his face. “Hopefully Cass and Duke will be able to give us more insight into Nicolette Byers. Gotham P.D. should be able to provide information on Benjamin Millar and Ana Consuelas.”

“Does anyone find it interesting that we’re only called in when the white woman dies?” Jason asks. “Just saying.”

Bruce gives him a look. “Jason…” 

He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I should have expected nothing less from Gotham’s finest.” 

“Commissioner Gordon is a good man,” Dick says sharply. He stares at Jason, not quite with accusation, but not quite with rapport. “And Gotham is not a forgiving city. You of all people should know that.”

“Is there anyone who doesn’t know that?”

“Barbara,” Bruce says, and they realize with a start that he is talking into his phone. “Look into the medical backgrounds of our victims, see if they shared any medications, conditions, treatments. You know what to look for.”

“Sure do,” she replies. Her bright voice is static over the phone. “Nothing can escape the beautiful net that I throw into the dark, deep waters of the web.”

Tim leans toward the receiver. “In that case, check to see if any of our victims signed up for volunteer clinical trials, or participated in any online forums focused on experimental medicine. It may be how our unsub is selecting his victim pool.”

“Ooh. That’s a quickie. Checking,  _ aaaand _ …” The sound of Barbara’s typing filters over the line. Jason can picture her, bright red hair tied behind her back, concentrated face lit with the blue light of too many monitors. “Nada. According to her online purchases, Nicolette was real into multivitamins, but that’s the closest I got.” 

“Keep digging,” Bruce says. “If we find anything that will help you narrow your search parameters, we’ll send it over.”

They talk about more things. Jason isn’t really listening. He’s staring at the cork board, at the pictures and the dates listed below them. 

**Benjamin Millar.** Reported missing: 3/18. Discovered: 3/20.   
**Ana Consuelas.** Reported missing: 3/21. Discovered: 3/24.   
**Nicolette Byers.** Reported missing: 3/24. Discovered: 3/27. 

Jason looks at his phone. March 28th, 3:07pm. 

“Excuse me,” he mutters, and walks out of the conference room. Behind him, he can hear Tim calling his name, but he shrugs it off. That’s not important right now. 

There’s a cop sitting at a desk in the main part of the office. He shuffles through a local newspaper—the sports section—noticing nothing of the agent standing in front of him. Finally, Jason slams his hand on the paper.

“What the—”

“I need a list of all missing persons reports filed in the last thirty-six hours,” Jason says. 

The cop shuffles indignantly in his seat as he stares at Jason, sizing him up. “Who’s asking?”

Ah yes. This is his favorite part of the job, when some asshat thinks he’s tough even though he’s too blind to see the badge on Jason’s belt. Grinning, Jason retrieves his license and flips it open, leaving it out long enough for the cop to get it.  _ That’s right, jackass. I outrank you.  _

The cop sighs, then looks at Jason. “What did you want, again?”

“Missing persons. Last thirty-six hours.”

“Uh huh.” 

Jason waits impatiently as the cop—Officer McCarthy, if his name badge is correct—plucks out one key at a time.  _ Plink, plink, plink.  _ God, Barbara would be having an aneurysm by now. 

“Alright, got it,” McCarthy says.

They stare at each other for a moment. “Well,” Jason says, “can you print it out?” 

“Oh. Yeah.”

After too much time, several slips of paper are in his hands. Jason pores over them, looking for—what is he looking for? He’ll know it when he sees it, he supposes. Or maybe Tim and Dick will have to take a look and point it out to him.

The notes are these:

**Lilian Claire, 20.** College student.   
**Tara Markov, 13.** Minor.   
**Charlie Watkins, 45.** Insurance Salesman.   
**Jeffrey Gross, 8.** Minor.  
**Stacey Adams, 34.** Unemployed.

It’s not the two minors; this he can say for certain. In his three years at the BAU, he’s never come across a case where an unsub moves from adult victims to child victims. Hell, he’s never even  _ heard  _ of a case like that. It's always one, or the other. Never both. Next.

Lilian Claire. Jason reads over her information, noting that her ex-boyfriend was the one to report her missing. Only, he never calls himself her ex. According to the report, “it’s complicated” and “they’re on a break right now.” Right. She’s probably not missing, but the guy is probably trying to find her. Next. 

Charlie Watkins isn’t from Gotham. Given that the last three victims were, he’s unlikely to be it. Next.

Stacey Adams has been acting strange lately. At least, that’s what her sister claims. Draining her bank account, cancelling plans, making strange calls. Her sister fears she may have run away. 

“There has to be more,” Jason says to McCarthy. 

The cop checks his computer screen. “Nope. Only five. Slow week,” he chuckles.

Jason ignores the joke. “I want to see all the case reports from the last thirty-six hours.”

“You’re kidding.” 

“Do I  _ look  _ like I’m kidding, you son of a—”

“ _ Jason. _ ”

It’s Bruce. He’s holding the door to the conference room, beckoning sternly. Is it possible to beckon sternly? Bruce makes it so. 

“We’re here as guests, Jason,” he says when the door is shut.

“There’s another victim, B. I know there is. You can’t tell me to just stand there and wait while—”

“If you can’t put aside your personal feelings, I’ll take you off the case. Do you understand?”

Jason grits his teeth, but nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Continue.”

“Each victim,” Jason huffs, pointing at the cork board, “was abducted within twenty-four hours of the previous victim’s murder. Given this timeframe, the unsub has already abducted the fourth.”

“Hence the missing persons reports,” Dick says.

“Hence the missing persons reports. But none of these appear to be potential victims.”

Tim extends a hand. “May I?” he asks. 

“I’m telling you, none of these fit our unsub’s victimology.” 

“It’s possible that a potential victim’s family hasn’t yet notified the police. Due to media influence, most people believe that someone needs to be missing for twenty-four hours in order to file a report.”

“And technically,” Dick points out, “we don’t have a handle on victimology. Not yet.”

“Our unsub has moved between high-risk and low-risk victims before,” Bruce says. “Perhaps he’s abducted someone from the homeless community as a means of keeping the authorities off his trail. Jason, go survey the transient population in East End, see if anyone went to meet someone and didn’t come back.”

_ Of course. _ The assignment is hardly a surprise. He’s fluent in Russian, Spanish, French, and Italian, but apparently “poor person” is the most important. It’s always his job to talk to the street people.  _ And _ it gets him out of the precinct.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “When should—”

Someone bursts into the conference room, a middle-aged man with a mustache and too much gray in his hair. Commissioner Gordon, Jason guesses.

“Agents,” the commissioner says. His chest heaves with every word. “I’m sorry to interrupt but there’s—we’ve found another body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway I really love writing stories with dumb cops, but I do want to make clear that Commissioner Gordon is not one of them. He's a great guy, guys. In fact, I'm pretty sure he and Alfred are tied in first place for the "Single-handedly keeping Batman/Gotham sane award." Poor dude deserves a break.


	3. Agent Cain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay no attention to the bad pseudoscience used by this work (and the show). Psychopathy/sociopathy is a highly contested diagnosis, and there's plenty of non-empathetic people who live happy, murder-free lives :)
> 
> I'm gonna go ahead and add a blanket warning for descriptions of torture/gore that will apply to the remainder of this fic.
> 
>  **additional warnings for this chapter:** mentions of sexual assault, decaying bodies, general atmosphere of death

_Gotham Heights. 1430 hours._

Nicolette’s mother is eerily silent. She is an attractive older woman, still clinging to her natural hair color even as streaks of gray adorn her temples. Or rather, she would be attractive, though grief has stripped something from her as it does all parents. Cass, not a parent, has never quite figured out what it is. Vitality? Hope? Fire? Substance? 

Then again, she doesn’t really want to find out.

“Please, Mrs. Byers,” Duke says. He leans forward, placing his hand near hers. It’s a gesture that speaks to compassion while remaining professional. _I am here for you._ “We’d love to hear anything you can tell us.”

“I’ve spoken to the police already,” Mrs. Byers says quietly. She dabs at her face with a tissue, though she has not cried. Instinct, Cass figures, or perhaps a reflection of her desire to cry. If she were faking grief, they would know. Grief is subtle: hitching breath, flickering eyes, the small quivers when the person realizes, again and again and again, that someone is missing from their life. 

Cass folds her hands together. “We are not the police, Mrs. Byers,” she says. “We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. The information you give us, we can use it to track down the man who did this to Nicolette.”

Mrs. Byer’s face crumples. There it is. “But who,” she whimpers, “who would do this to my baby girl?”

“We’re hoping you could tell us.”

Duke leans closer. “Did your daughter mention meeting anyone new recently? Anyone she considered a little strange?”

She looks up, tears making mirrors of her eyes. “Strange?”

“This person would have seemed blunt, but sociable,” Cass explains. “Maybe they expressed interest in her personal details, or they had an odd reaction to something that she said.”

“Nickie didn’t mention anyone like that.” Mrs. Byers sniffed, then dabbed at her face again. “Her friends, her clients, everyone loved her. We all loved her.”

“I know,” Duke says softly. He makes no effort to hide his empathy, handing her another tissue as sadness fills his face. “Mrs. Byers, if you can think of anything, anything at all…”

“What were Nicolette’s clients like?” Cass offers.

“Clients? They were fine,” Mrs. Byers says, sniffing. She seems to have calmed herself, and the calmness is clearly a cause of distress. Cass can see her thoughts as if written out on paper: _my daughter is dead. I am not crying. I am a fraud._

“Grief is a strange thing,” she says quietly, taking the old woman’s hand. “No matter how you react, it does not take away from your love for Nicolette.” 

Mrs. Byers looks up, eyes wide. “Do you think someone she knew did this to her?”

“It’s possible,” Duke says. “Mrs. Byers, please. If there’s anyone, anything at all, your help will be invaluable.”

Something crosses her face. It’s subtle, but Cass catches it nonetheless. 

“What?” she asks.

“Nickie is—was—an amazing girl. My amazing girl. But her whole life, she was terrified of water.” The woman smiles sadly. “She fell off the pier when she was a little girl.”

 _Nicolette Byers,_ Cass thinks. _Cause of death: drowning._ That is something to file away for later.

Mrs. Byers continues. “Nickie recently started attending a support group for people with phobias,” she says. “Just a small thing. More of a...well, I joked that it was a club.”

“This support group, was it through a specific organization, like a hospital or community center?” Duke asks.

“No. Just something her friend put together.”

“Can we have the name of this friend?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. His name was, um, Neil. Neil Adrian, I think.” 

Duke smiles. “Thank you.”

Their cue to leave. Cass offers the most sincere smile that she can, one that acknowledges pain but doesn’t ignore the possibility of hope. Duke does it better than she does, but then again between the two of them he’s always been the people person. Still, as they leave the Byers’ home, she turns to the old woman and says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” They’re probably empty words by now, but it feels wrong not to say them.

“Thank you, Agents,” Mrs. Byers replies, and shuts the door behind them. It was kind of her to smile, but Cass wishes she hadn’t. 

In the car, Duke taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Looks like we’re gonna have to talk to Neil Adrian,” he says. 

Cass nods. 

“Of course,” Duke continues, “it’s unlikely that the other victims attended this support group, given their different socioeconomic statuses.”

“True.”

“But it’s a start.”

Again Cass nods. It’s hard, wanting more than a start but knowing that it’s necessary to move forward. You can’t run a marathon without taking a step, and so on. But still. A step feels insignificant in the moment. 

“What are you thinking?” Duke asks.

Cass pulls out her phone. “I want more information.”

“Calling Babs?”

“Calling Babs,” she repeats, starting up a video call. 

Babs’ face appears at once. “What’s up sugar plum?” she asks.

“Babs, can you run information on a Neil Adrian?”

“Sure can.” 

“He’s probably from Burnley, if that helps,” Duke adds.

Babs scoffs. “ _If that helps._ Don’t go thinking I need help, Mr. Thomas. Please. All I need is…” A few more taps of her keyboard, and her face lights up. “There. Neil Adrian, 142A South Marine Street. Firefighter. What’s this about?” 

“Nicolette’s mother said that he ran a support group for people with phobias,” Cass explains. “Any information on that?”

“Um…” Babs squints at her screen while she types, stopping only long enough to adjust her wire-rim glasses. “Da-da-da-da! Our boy Neil is the moderator of a Facebook group called ‘Scaredy-Cat Meet-up.’ Sending you the list of members now.” 

Duke leans over toward the phone. “Babs, could anyone theoretically view this group?” 

“Well, yeah. It’s an open group.”

Cass’ phone dings as the list of members arrives in her mailbox. She ignores it, instead turning to Babs. “Is there anything suspicious on the page? Links to outside organizations, strange treatments, things of that kind?”

Babs shakes her head. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Damn. Cass sighs, and forces herself to smile. “Thanks,” she says. “Talk to you soon.” 

“Let me know when you need my expertise,” Babs replies, and the phone screen goes dark. 

Duke looks over at her. “You gonna look through that list of people?” he asks

Cass pulls a face. “I don’t think our unsub is dumb enough to join a Facebook group.”

“Fair. We’ll interview them, then?”

The list of people isn’t long, only eight including Neil. Seven. Seven, because Nicolette has been murdered. “I’ll look into it,” she says. 

Duke chuckles.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I’ve just forgotten how concentrated you can get. You’re like an unstoppable force on these cases.”

“Unstoppable force.”

“I meant it as a compliment.

“I know,” Cass replies. “It’s a funny one.”

Duke shoots her a look. “Funny? Are you admitting I have a sense of humor?”

“No, I’m—hold on.” She pulls out her phone again, seeing Bruce’s name above a new message. That’s the first thing she notices. The second thing is the instructions. 

Oh. Oh no. 

“Who is it?” Duke asks.

Cass clears her throat, which has suddenly become dry and scratchy. “B.”

“What does he want?” 

“The police have found another body,” she says. “He wants us to meet them at the disposal site.”

“Well, shit,” Duke says.

☉☉☉

_Gotham City Docks. 1530 hours._

It’s a man, this time. Or, it was a man. 

Cass is not a medical examiner, but she has seen many bodies, enough to know that this one has been dead for a few days. Discolored limbs, blotches of gray and green around the extremities, a slight bloated quality that makes the flesh look soft, as if the slightest touch would break the skin and slip into rotting warmth. Then there were the bites, insect and mammalian, that carved away at the skin, revealing ashen muscle and bone. And finally, there was the blood, no longer scarlet and fluid, but black and congealed. 

_Goo,_ Cass thinks. It’s a childish term, but it’s also the only one that works. After a few days, blood turns to goo. 

Duke stands next to her, grimacing from the putrid smell of decay. He seems torn between breathing through his nose, thus allowing the stench to overpower him, and breathing through his mouth, where surely the rot will linger on his tongue for hours. A no-win scenario. 

“Torn to bits,” he mutters. 

Tim, appearing from nowhere, agrees. “Look at the quantity of blood around the stab wounds,” he says. “They were inflicted pre-mortem.” 

Cass doesn’t see how Tim can make out stab wounds on the victim’s torso. There is not one spot that isn’t torn and bloodied. No wonder the body remained undiscovered for so long. From a distance, passerby likely assumed that it was scraps from a butcher’s block, a large bag of fat and giblets and rancid steak.

Shit. That was dark. Sometimes she forgets that these things are supposed to bother people. 

“Where’s everyone else?” she asks, watching the crime scene technicians roam around. They snap pictures. They take samples. It seems so very routine.

Tim motions behind them. “Talking to the police. We’re hoping to expedite facial recognition to get a better grasp on victimology.”

“Find anything new?” Duke asks.

“It’s likely our unsub is in the medical field, given the precision of his torture.” Tim looks over at the body, scanning it from top to bottom. “See the cuts on his neck? Not a single one hit an artery.”

“Impressive,” Cass says.

Duke sends her a look.

“What? It’s important to recognize the unsub’s intelligence,” she explains. “Otherwise they’ll slip right through your fingers. Right, Tim?”

Tim isn’t listening. He’s bent over the body, turning over the left arm. “Zero-zero-two-B,” he says, standing as he peels off his gloves. “Looks like we found one of our earlier victims.”

“COD?” Duke asks.

“Hard to tell. The body’s been in a state of decomposition for at least a week.” 

Duke looks away from the body, trying and failing to hide his disgust. Cass admires him for this, his humanity. While the rest of them—save Babs, obviously—have been made stoic by the job, Duke’s empathy is something extraordinary. 

“Christ,” he says. “Those ligature marks. Think he was experimenting with ways to restrain his vics?”

“Probably.”

“What about the body?” Cass asks, just as Dick comes up behind her. 

“What about the body?” he repeats. His eyes find the mass of flesh, and a noise of disgust leaves him. “Oh.” 

“It’s hidden behind the dumpster,” she says, walking closer. No one joins her, not even Tim, who seems to finally be succumbing to the smell. “Thirty more feet, and the unsub could have thrown him in the bay.”

“Given the saltwater content of the bay, it would have been a much more effective forensic countermeasure,” Tim adds.

Cass nods in his direction. “Exactly.” 

“There are cameras. Maybe our unsub was in a hurry?” Duke asks.

Dick shakes his head. “The cameras don’t work. B and I were just talking with the commissioner about the lack of surveillance in the area.”

Someone laughs bitterly. Jason. “That’s Gotham for ya,” he says. 

“Any luck on identifying him?” Duke asks, nodding his head toward the body.

“Nope. Doesn’t match any missing persons’ reports, so we’re probably looking at another homeless victim.”

“Makes sense,” Tim says. “Our unsub would be attracted to high-risk victims before he perfected his M.O.” 

Cass doesn’t say anything. She merely watches Jason as he paces across the crime scene, looking at everything but the body. He’s not as good at pretending as he thinks he is. She can tell from his face that it bothers him, a homeless, nameless victim. He’s furious and distressed and he has every right to be. _Except maybe,_ she thinks, looking behind them at Bruce’s cold expression, _not in front of the unit chief._ That’s a surefire way to get sent back to Quantico.

“The body was dragged,” Jason says.

Dick looks at him. “How can you tell?”

“Well, the position of the victim, for one. And there’s trace amounts of blood on the pavement, from here to there.” Jason motions from his position—the edge of the lot—to the body.

“You can see that?” Duke asks.

“No. I talked to the crime scene techs. They ran a luminol test before we got here.” 

Dick holds up a finger, his _let me walk through this_ gesture. “Wait. So our unsub took the victim out of some sort of vehicle there, dragged him fifteen feet, then left the body and took off?” His brow furrows in concentration. “Cass is right. Why not the water?”

“The weight of the adult human body is a lot more than people imagine,” Tim says. “Especially limp like that. It’s one of the reasons so many killers choose to dismember their victims.” 

“Lovely,” Jason says dryly. “Thanks for the factoid.” 

Duke finishes Tim’s thought for him. “If our unsub could only handle the weight over a short space, we’re likely looking for someone of small stature.”

A weary look appears on Jason’s face.

“What is it?” Cass asks him.

He swallows and shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about a short son of a bitch who practiced raping and torturing homeless people before moving onto the big leagues.” 

“We’ll get him, Jay,” Duke says. 

“Did I say we wouldn’t?”

“Bruce,” Cass says softly, and the anger drains from Jason’s face. They all turn to greet their unit chief, backs straight and chins up like a line of soldiers.

He sighs deeply. “Gotham P.D. wants to take over the scene. Clean it up before the media gets here.”

“I don’t think we need to see more,” Dick replies. 

“Good.” Bruce nods. “Duke, Dick, you two stay here and field the reporters' questions. Try to distract from the brutal nature of the killings. An unsub who experiments on his victims is likely a narcissist. We don’t want to add fuel to the fire by highlighting his work.” 

“Got it,” Duke says. And he does. Cass knows he does, because she’s seen him hold off thronging crowds without even breaking a sweat. He could shut down the media in his sleep. Especially if Dick’s with him. 

Though, judging from Dick’s face, he doesn’t particularly want to be. Cass wonders if he’s afraid of how they’ll caption him. _Agent Richard Grayson, former GCPD officer._ It’s hard, coming back to a place you once called home. Jason’s angry, clearly, but Dick’s reaction is heavy with regret. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers to him, before the rest of them head back to the precinct. 

Dick smiles, one eyebrow raised. “Thank you?” 

“You’ll be fine.”

“How couldn’t I be?” he replies, chuckling. “I’ll just sit back and let Duke do the talking.” 

Cass gives him a small smile, then heads back to the vehicles where the others are waiting. They’ve got a lot of information to sift through, puzzle pieces to shove together. 

There are too many grieving mothers already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing against short people. I myself am a short people.


	4. Agent Drake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The agents dig deeper into the unsub's intentions, hoping find a connection between the victims. With luck, they'll be able to identify the latest victim before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to another chapter of this trash! Please enjoy the show.
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** references to child abuse, discussion of phobias.

_ Gotham City Police Department. 1800 hours. _

Tim hates not knowing things. 

If he were to psychoanalyze his feelings—and he always does—he’d attribute it to his father’s coma. The pain he felt, waiting for Jack to live, waiting for Jack to die, it made him realize that even bad news is at least  _ something.  _ Whoever said that “no news is good news” is a filthy liar. No news is a veritable hell.

“Nothing,” Jason says. 

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Squat. Nobody reported missing comes close to fitting the victimology.”

Tim pipes up. “To be fair, we don’t actually have a victimology yet. All we have are victims.”

“Look,” Jason says angrily. He sets down a stack of papers on the table, and starts flipping through. “None of these people are ones our unsub is looking for. No strange disappearances. No unexplained absences. They’re just  _ normal. _ ”

Bruce doesn’t look over the papers, but he nods nonetheless. Good. The two of them have been arguing over nothing as of late, and Tim would much rather see them get along, if for nothing else than to expedite the case. Besides, when Jason’s angry, he takes it out on everyone else.

“So what do you suggest?” Bruce asks.

Jason purses his lips, his teal eyes falling on the corkboard of victims. The latest, one Mr. Vincent Adrian according to Babs’ incredible power of search, stares back at them. 

“Dunno,” he says. “I’ll talk to Cass, see if she and Duke found anything from Nicolette’s mom.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tim adds, scooping a notebook and pens into his arms. The more information he can gather, the more dots he will have to connect. Or rather, the key will become clear. He already has the dots, swirling around in his head like a thousand buzzing stars, but they are almost too much. Who knows what pattern he is supposed to make.

The precinct is quieter in the evening, and the light is colder, which most experts would agree is good for productivity but bad for the case as a whole. It will be night soon, and morning will come soon after, bringing with it more  _ nothing.  _ Like Jack and his coma all over again. Will tomorrow be the day they find that all-important clue, or will the unsub kill again? 

Schrödinger's case indeed.

Cass is sitting in the break room, drinking coffee and staring at a picture of Nicolette. Judging by the number of sugar packets beneath her mug, she is on her third cup. 

“Damn, Cain,” Jason says. He scoops the packets into his hand and throws them into the trash. “You’re gonna get addicted.”

Mmm. Not quite. “I wouldn’t call it an addiction, at least, not in the traditional sense,” Tim tells him. “Even a cup a day is enough to cause withdrawal headaches from expanding blood vessels in the brain.” 

“Thanks, Tim,” Cass says quietly.

It takes him a moment before he picks up on her sarcasm. Right. No one cares about caffeine. 

Jason doesn’t smile, but his eyes betray a hint of amusement. “Cass,” he begins, “Talk to us. What do you have on the unsub?”

She holds her coffee mug to her lips and takes a long sip, finishing with a sigh. “A group,” she says.

“A group.”

“For people with phobias.”

“Phobias,” Tim repeats. “What was she scared of?”

“Water.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Nicolette, drowning victim, afraid of water. That’s not something you see every day.”

“Aquaphobia is actually fairly common, especially in the U.S. Approximately 4.3 percent of people, or one in every twenty-five, suffer from that specific phobia.” Tim chuckles, and adds, “In all likelihood, there’s probably a few aquaphobes in this office.”

The others are staring at him again. Damn. He misunderstood Jason’s words, didn’t he?

“But yes,” he stammers. “The drowning part is interesting.”

Taking a seat across from Cass, Jason leans over the table, an intense expression on his face. “What if that’s what our guy’s experimenting on?” he says. “Fear.”

“The other CODs were blood loss and heart failure,” Cass says, looking at Tim. Her eyes say it all:  _ got any stats for us?  _

He does, unsurprisingly. “Well, haemophobia is another common phobia, and while it is rare the adrenaline surge that accompanies sudden stress can cause an unexpected cardiac-related event. Theoretically rapid exposure to any phobia can trigger heart failure.”

“Not to mention the torture,” Jason adds. “Regardless of specific phobias, our unsub’s methods would make any normal person shit themselves.”

“Normal person,” Tim repeats. A series of images flash before his eyes; he rushes to pick out the relevant ones. Triangles, circles, numbers…it’s as if the storage bin in his mind has released its contents. 

Somewhere in the distance, he is aware of Cass watching him. “What?” she asks. 

And then, it comes together.

“Quintessence,” he blurts out, scrambling for his notebook and—dammit.

Jason hands him the pen that fell to the floor. “What was that?” 

“Quintessence,” Tim repeats, combining three shapes—triangle, circle, square—into one. “It’s a psychic spiritual energy. Alchemists believed quintessence was a rejuvenating force that could heal any disease or condition, even preserving the body from corruption.”

“Corruption,” Jason repeats.

Tim shrugs. “Sickness, sin, possession—”

“Fear,” Cass says.

“And yes, fear.” Tim taps the drawing. “Look familiar?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Cass nods. “The tattoos,” she replies. “Triangles, circles, and squares.”

“ _ Great.” _

They both turn to look at Jason, who is rubbing his temples, eyes squeezed shut.

“So you’re telling me our unsub is using a combination of alchemy and torture to get rid of people’s phobias?” he says. “That’s fun. What about the cocktail of drugs our guy is using?” 

Tim shrugs. “Alchemy is a science. The unsub is probably updating it for the modern era.”

“But why?” Cass asks quietly. 

“Why what?”

“Why try to rid people of fear?”

“It’s a human imperfection,” Tim replies. “Some scientists believe fear is an innate thing, given the human propensity to—”

“Tim,” Jason says.

“Fine, fine. The unsub wants to find a cure to fear, just as Joe Scientist wants to find a cure to cancer, or rabies, or any other ailment.”

Cass nods solemnly. “An unsub who thinks he can cure pain. Think we’re looking for a narcissist?”

“Hell yeah,” Jason replies. “If this guy thinks he can cure  _ pain,  _ he’s got to have some kind of god complex.”

That term.  _ God complex.  _ Tim thinks about explaining the etymology and usage of it, but decides to hold his tongue. There are more important matters, anyway. He knows it. They know it too.

Bruce is the first person they tell about all of this. They being him and Cass. Jason is still lingering in the background and, judging from the way he buries himself in his work, not even stopping to glance over at them, not yet ready to face Bruce. A shame. Tim knows they would get along better if Jason didn’t think the world is against him, and if Bruce didn’t let him think that way. 

“Pain,” Bruce repeats.

Tim nods. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Most cultures in the world have some manner of legend or mythology about the nature of pain. Algos, Seth—” 

Bruce holds up a hand, cutting him off. “Thank you, Tim. Do we know how the unsub is finding his victims?”

“Nicolette was in a group for people with phobias,” Cass says. “Neither of the other two—three—victims were a part of it.”

“Who else was in this group?”

“Babs is running the names, but…” She shakes her head, and takes another sip of coffee. “I doubt our unsub is amateurish enough to have joined. Too many witnesses.”

Bruce’s face darkens. “I see,” he says. 

From the back of the room, Jason sighs loudly. “There’s got to be  _ something,”  _ he says. “For all we know, he’s picking out his next victim.”

“He probably  _ has  _ his next victim, given the timeline,” Tim says.

Jason glares daggers. 

_ Whoops.  _

“What about online groups?” Cass says quietly. “Forums, or something like that.”

“It’s a possibility,” Bruce replies. And that’s their cue to call Babs. Jason, begrudgingly, gives up his laptop for the video call. 

Babs’ face, bright and cheery as ever, appears onscreen. “Lady Gordon, at your service,” she chirps. 

Bruce leans toward the speaker. “Babs, were going to need you to search through the victim’s online history. Look for web pages focused on phobias or other topics related to fear.” 

“Fear. Gotcha.”

“Given Benjamin Millar’s status as a transient,” Tim adds, “you should probably narrow your search to sites without paywalls.”

“And centered in Gotham,” Cass says.

Babs laughs. “You guys make it sound so difficult. I’ll hit you up with the results ASAP. Is the dream team back from the news conference yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmmm. Probably got a lot of icky questions, huh?”

“Duke knows how to redirect sensationalism,” Bruce says, his tone clear:  _ focus only on the task at hand, please. _

On the screen, Babs nods. “Yes, sir,” she replies. “I’ll be right back with the search results.”

A flick of her wrist, and the screen goes blank. Jason grabs the laptop back and sits down, frowning for frowning’s sake. 

Poor guy. Tim knows that Jason would rather die than admit he’s affected by the case, and would rather kill him than accept his sympathy. But still, Tim can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to escape a life of poverty and try to help people do the same, only to have their dead bodies piled at his feet. 

Though, to be fair, he understands some: though few of their cases deal with parental neglect, he still feels that same jolt of anger, of worry, every time a hurt child is brought before the BAU.  _ That could have been me,  _ he thinks.  _ That  _ was _ me, and I still couldn’t save them.  _

But he’s learned to swallow these thoughts. Surviving work with the BAU requires willing constipation of the emotions, lest he wants to have a psychiatric break and lose his job. 

“What?” Jason asks.

It takes Tim a moment to realize he’s talking to him. “Oh. Nothing.”

“You had your ‘thinking face’ on.”

“My thinking face?”

Jason pauses, then mutters, “Nevermind.”

The room quiets, and remains quiet for some time. Tim loses track of the minutes, busying himself by sorting through the storage bins in his head.  _ Connect the dots, connect the dots.  _ There’s more information now, and he  _ knows  _ things again. Slowly, the pages of his notebook begin to fill with chemical and alchemical symbols. It’s as if he’s trying to turn iron into gold.

Then Babs calls them back.

“Talk to us, Babs,” Cass says.

“So I ran a search using the parameters you gave me, and I came up with some juicy information,” she replies. On cue, Tim’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he fishes it out, a list of websites appears on the screen. “The first is a post on the Gotham City subreddit asking about support groups and therapies for people who suffer from—well, agoraphobia specifically, but over a hundred people replied, including one of our four victims.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “One out of four?”

“Yes! According to a picture posted on her profile, MissSuena808 is Ana Consuelas. But get this: the poster of the initial question goes by the username BenBenM.”

“As in Benjamin Millar,” Tim says.

“That, my friend, is a distinct possibility. BenBen’s IP address puts him in the middle of East End, right near Benjamin Millar’s rehabilitation program.”

“What about Nicolette Byers and Vincent Adrian?” asks Jason.

Babs clicks her tongue. “So I did some digging, and it looks our latest victim was a frequent visitor to the site Ana listed in her comment—which was the top-rated one, by the way, so I’d bet a lot of money that the others saw it, seeing as that’s the way Reddit—”

“Babs,” Bruce says. 

“Yes, yes. Anyway, Ms. Ana linked to forum-type website where people shared info on therapies and progress.” 

“Let me guess,” Tim says, “You found accounts for all four of our known vics.”

Babs’ eyes twinkle. “That would be correct, Agent Timothy Drake. All four of them made accounts in the past thirty days.”

“Makes sense. He’d want people who aren’t yet on the road to recovery, as that could mess with his scientific process.”

“I think we found how he chooses his victims,” Jason mutters.

Bruce nods. “Babs, I need you to compile a list of all—”

“Already sent to your phones, darlings.” 

God, she’s good. “Thanks Babs,” Tim says. “Any of them catch your eye?”

“Only a few,” she replies. “Because, as Jason can tell you—”

Jason scowls, but his eyes betray no anger or embarrassment.

“—any new victims haven’t been reported missing, I looked for people  _ temporarily  _ in Gotham, or people who fall under the category of ‘high risk victims.’”

“And?” Bruce asks.

“And I’ve got three names: Cullen Row, Rose Wilson, and Roy Harper.” 

“Cullen Row,” Cass repeats. She looks over the information on her tablet, frowning. “Looks like he’s got a sister. Unless she doesn’t care that he’s missing…”

Something in Tim cracks, but he swallows the feeling. 

“Um…” The sound of Babs typing is the only thing that fills the conference room. “Probably not. Court documents state that Harper Row emancipated herself and fought for legal guardianship of her brother.”

“Rose Wilson is out too,” Bruce adds. “According to her post history, she claims to be a non-resident. Our unsub’s strict timetable and hunting grounds wouldn’t allow him to leave Gotham to find a victim.”

“So that means…” Cass trails off, and stares at her tablet. 

Tim does the same:  _ Roy Harper, 30. Born in Star City, moved to Gotham. Dropped out of four rehab programs. Evicted from his apartment in Otisburg. Claustrophobic.  _

“Fuck,” Jason says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join my Discord channel!](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP)


	5. Agent Grayson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU gathers more details before delivering the profile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criminal Minds is just so stupid. I love it.

_ Gotham City Police Department. 2300 hours. _

In the conference room Dick watches himself on the television, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut. On TV, he looks older, more worn. People always say that the camera adds five pounds, but they never talk about the years it adds to your face. When a reporter asks them if the Bureau is narrowing down the suspect pool, the corners of his eyes crinkle like an old man’s.

The same cannot be said of Duke. 

“What’s important is that the public take precautions,” TV Duke says to the reporter. His face is blank, but handsome. Alive. “Stay alert. Don’t travel alone at night, or in abandoned areas. Report suspicious activity to the police. We have a tip line listed on the GCPD website.”

“Is it true that the Gotham Butcher already has another victim?” one reporter asks. 

“We can’t make any statements about the  _ unknown subject _ we are looking for,” Duke says, pointedly emphasizing the term. It was something drilled into their heads during their time at the academy: nicknames are bad. Nicknames give the unsub a celebrity status. Nicknames give the unsub confidence, a desire to strike again and deepen their mark on history. And with a narcissistic unsub like theirs… Well. “Bad” is an understatement. 

Dick watches himself step forward, lean into the reporter’s mic. “Again,” TV Dick says, “we want to emphasize the importance of taking preventative measures. There is no reason for worry as long as you do what Agent Thomas says.” 

That is where the interview ends. There are some more questions; long, voyeuristic shots of workers removing Vincent Adrian’s body from the scene. But TV Dick and TV Duke are thanking the reporters and walking away. The reporter turns to the camera, and—

Dick shuts the television off. What a mess. He wonders if anyone watching recognized him.  _ Dick Grayson…didn’t he use to live here? Is he only coming back when he has a chance to be a hero?  _

No, he shouldn’t think like that. Bruce put him up there for a reason. To show Gotham that one of their own is trying to fix this, that there is more than an apathetic government organization behind the scenes. That they care.

And Dick does care. Maybe even too much. No matter how hard he tries, he always come back to the same point:  _ I should have stayed here. I left when they needed me most.  _

“You alright?” Duke asks. He takes a seat opposite Dick, papers overflowing from his arms.

Dick forces himself to smile. “Peachy,” he replies. “What’s that?”

“The latest victim. We’re researching his background to find possible abduction sites.”

“We’re?”

“We’re,” Jason says. Dick hadn’t seen him come in. He looks tired and tense. The lines of his face cut deep. Rather than taking a seat at the conference table, he lingers in the back of the room, flipping through a file with a sour look on his face.

“We’re also looking at nearby locations,” Duke continues. “Possibly even where the unsub is, um,  _ experimenting _ .”

Right. Tim had filled him in on the unsub’s mission. Ridding people of fear. That’s a new one. “The latest vic,” Dick says. “What’s his name again?”

“Roy Harper. We called his sponsor and employer earlier. He hasn’t checked in with either of them in two days.”

_ Oh no. _ “What do we know about him?”

Tim comes out of nowhere. “Roy Harper. Age thirty, former resident of Star City,” he begins. He drops a second, smaller pile of papers on the table and takes a seat. “Left after losing his job and apartment due to a series of substance abuse issues He’s been in and out of rehabilitation centers, but seemed to be turning his life around. Two months ago he found a job working at a soup kitchen, and just last week he put in an application for a studio apartment in East End.”

“Last week, huh.” Dick pulls his lips tight, reaching for the second pile. On top is a photo of a man around his age, with bright red hair and knowing green eyes. “What’s his phobia?” 

A shadow falls over Duke’s face. “According to the website Babs pulled up, he’s developed an irrational fear of needles.”

“Trypanophobia is a fairly common fear, existing in around twenty-five percent of adults,” Tim explains. “It’s been suggested that the fear has a genetic basis, though cases can also be caused by traumatic events. Roy Harper most likely associates the painful memories of intravenous drug use with images of and procedures involving needles.”

“Then it’s a fear of going back too, isn’t it?” Dick asks. “What’s that called,  pharmacophobia? Fear of drugs?”

Tim shrugs. “Phobias are often interconnected,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one fear manifested as another.” 

Dick hums, and once again finds himself staring at the photo. It looked to be a recent picture, probably taken during a license renewal. There are dark circles under his eyes, but Roy’s smile is bright. 

A sickness settles in Dick’s stomach.  _ Shit,  _ he thinks. What would it be like, to work so hard to improve yourself only to fall into an entirely different kind of hell? To think that, no matter how hard you try, your life will be cut short anyway?

They have to find him. 

Looking up from the photo, Dick finds himself watching Jason. The muscles of his face are taut, trying too hard to hold back expression. Dick doesn’t blame him. Jason doesn’t talk a lot about where he came from—only enough to keep Bruce from calling him “emotionally constipated” and putting him back in mandated therapy—but Dick has put the pieces together. To have a vic that’s a) a former drug addict, and b) homeless… Well. No wonder Jason is looking like that.

The glass door to the conference room swings open with a sigh. Bruce steps inside, looking like he smelled something foul. “You’re still here,” he says. 

From the corner, Jason grunts. 

Bruce acknowledges him with a raised brow. “Anything to report?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Duke says. “A few people called the tip line to report loitering vehicles in their neighborhoods. Babs ran the plates, but none of the registered owners ticked our boxes.”

“The calls mean they watched the broadcast.” Bruce nods once. “Good work.”

_ Good work.  _ He talked into a microphone. If that qualifies as “good work,” then they’ll never solve the case.

“We’ll keep looking, B,” Dick says. “We’re gonna narrow down our search parameters, find where this guy—”

“No,” Bruce says sharply. His face is hard as it always is on a case, though his eyes are gentle. “Get some rest. All of you.”

Jason lowers his file. “Rest? You’re kidding, B. Every moment we don’t—” 

“We’re no use to Roy Harper running on fumes. Barbara has booked us rooms at the hotel down the road. I’ll see you all at 0700 tomorrow.”

“But—”

“No buts, Jason,” Bruce says, one hand already on the door handle. “I’ll see you at 0700.” 

When he’s gone, Jason throws his file on the table and huffs. “Fine,” he mutters. “Who wants to tell Cass?”

“I know,” Cass says quietly. 

Dick blinks. Cass is sitting in the corner opposite him, halfway shrouded by the shadow of a bookcase. She had to have passed him, to get there, but he didn’t even see her. It’s her superpower, he supposes. 

Jason pulls his lips tight. “Fine,” he says again, and walks out of the room. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Someone else drive. I’m not in the mood.”

In the hotel, Dick falls on his bed and stares at the ceiling. The walls are thin. He can hear Duke showering in the room behind him, the squeak of a mattress two rooms over. Down the hall, the ice machine rumbles. Cass, he supposes. She likes her water to have a crunch.

_ Sleep,  _ he tells himself, rolling onto his side. His eyes are heavy; every time he does not pay attention, they fall closed. But his mind won’t follow. 

He sees bodies, torn and brutalized and marred beyond recognition. He sees himself, standing dumbly in front of the camera, unable to do anything. Dick has always been unable to do anything. Unable to save his parents. Unable to stay with Gotham. Unable to protect it when it needs his help. 

Fuck. It’s going to be a long night.

☉☉☉

_ Gotham City Police Department. 0700 hours. _

“How are we feeling?” Duke asks him.

“Is that the royal ‘we’ or the therapist ‘we’?” Dick mumbles, staring into his cup of coffee. His head aches. He hardly slept at all.

“That bad, huh?”

“Eh.” Dick takes a long sip of coffee, finishes with a sigh and a smile. “Hotel mattresses, you know? Not the comfiest.”

“Speak for yourself. I slept like a rock.”

“I am completely fine. Everything is going wonderfully.”

Duke claps him on the shoulder. “You better work on that before Bruce gets here. You’re worse than Jason.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, you know.” Duke lowers his voice, scrunching his face into something angry. “I’m fine, fine, fine. Never felt an emotion in my life. Don’t talk to me.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Dick says.

“Never do.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Cass walks into the break room, holding an empty cup. “More coffee?” she asks quietly, pouring deep brown liquid into her cup and finishing it off with a dash of creamer, two sugars. 

Dick raises his cup in a mock toast. “I’m all set.”

“How many are you on, Cass?” Duke asks.

“Three.”

He whistles.

“You were here early, then,” Dick says. Of course she came in early; Cass is second only to Bruce with her superhuman drive to work. Pure focus. She’s probably refreshed after four hours of sleep.

Cass nods. “Looking through security footage.”

“Thought the cameras were all out-of-order?” Duke asks. “That’s what the commissioner said, at least.”

“Not all. Almost all.” 

“In the East End?”

A nod. Cass sips her coffee quietly. 

Something like hope surges in Dick’s chest. “And you found something?”

“Not yet. I could use a second pair of eyes.”

Dick stands quickly, not caring that drops of coffee have spilled over the edge of his cup, stinging his skin. “Done,” he says. “Right now. Let’s go.”

Commissioner Gordon is standing by his desk, staring down at the computer with a worried look on his face. “Agent Cain,” he says, when he sees them walking in. “Agent Grayson. We just got new footage from the security company. A camera behind the clinic. About two hours’ worth.”

Dick doesn’t have to ask if it is prepped and ready for them to view. He knows the commissioner.  _ Anything to help,  _ the commissioner used to say, back when Dick was on the force and still learning about himself.  _ Always do everything you can.  _

The thought settles tightly in his gut.

He lets Cass take the chair, hovering behind her as they speed through the footage. People walking. Cars. Stray dogs. They all zip by in grainy images of black and white, until—

“There,” he says. “What was that?”

Cass rewinds the video. In the corner, halfway out of frame, a white van. Maybe it’s a bit stereotypical of him to look for the white van, but then again it’s  _ always  _ the white van. Tim probably has a statistic about it, hidden somewhere in that brain of his.

The van lingers in the corner of the screen. And then someone is walking down the sidewalk, toward the van’s headlights.

Dick’s heart stops.

Even in the grainy resolution, he recognizes the face. Roy Harper.

“That’s him,” he mutters, watching Roy keep walking. Closer, closer. When he comes to pass the van’s window, he stops suddenly and leans in. So the unsub talked to him. Interesting.

“Look at his body,” Cass says, thrusting a finger toward the screen. “Relaxed. Friendly.”

She’s right. Roy is smiling, nodding. Suddenly he walks to the back of the van, out of frame. A moment passes. Another. Dick finds his stomach dropping to his feet.

All of a sudden the van shudders violently, as if shaken by a slamming door. A second later, it is peeling away from the side of the road, not so fast as to draw suspicion, but fast enough.

Cass rewinds. They watch again. 

“When was this taken?” Dick asks the commissioner. 

“Two days ago.”

“ _ Shit,”  _ he mutters, racing off to find Bruce. “ _ Shit shit shit shit.”  _

_ Two days ago. _ They are running out of time.

And then they are all crowded in the commissioner’s office, watching the video on a too-small computer screen. Bruce notices the same thing Cass did. 

“Look at his body language,” he says. “He’s not frightened, or suspicious. He seems almost—”

“—eager,” Duke finishes.

“Yes. Eager.” Bruce straightens, staring at the screen. 

Dick joins him, watching the van disappear around the corner of the street. “Hold on,” he says. “At the docks, Jason said that the body was dragged.”

Jason shuffles uncomfortably.

Bruce nods once. “The coroner confirmed it. Friction burns on his lower body.”

“Right. And Duke said we’re looking for someone small in stature.”

“Non-threatening unsub,” Cass says.

“Exactly! And who is non-threatening?”

“Generally, people consider younger individuals to be less threatening due to the assumption that they are honest and innocent,” Tim says. “Women too are considered to be more approachable, as are older people.”

“So our unsub could be a woman,” Duke says.

“No. This level of rage usually isn’t found in a female unsub. It’s highly unlikely.”

“But an older unsub,” Dick says. “Think about it: an older man comes up to you, asks for help. Most people wouldn’t say no, right?”

“It would explain why the body was dragged,” Jason adds. “An older unsub wouldn’t have the strength to carry it.”

Bruce nods solemnly. “Get the commissioner,” he says to Dick. “It’s time to deliver the profile.”

☉☉☉

**Bruce:** The unsub we’re looking for is a sadistic male doctor, possibly in his 60s. He is a textbook narcissist with a severe God complex, which allows him to believe that he can defy human biology and anatomy.

**Duke:** The unsub is highly intelligent and manipulative, and is able to gain the trust of his victims before subduing them. He uses a vehicle to transport his victims to a secondary location, where he is able to torture them over the course of several days. 

**Jason:** Evidence suggests that he will go to extreme lengths to keep his victims alive, leading us to believe that he is experimenting on them, attempting to cure what he believes to be the greatest human imperfection. 

**Cass:** Our ability to feel pain.

**Dick:** This unsub is obsessed with perfection. Look for men in the medical field who have been caught experimenting with treatments. Because of his obsession, it is unlikely that he will have any close relationships, as no living person is able to meet his expectations for the ideal human being. 

**Bruce:** He will stop at nothing to create his vision of the perfect human specimen. It is of the utmost importance that we find him before the clock runs out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #CassandraCainEatsIce
> 
> I really didn't know how to write the profile scene. It's so dumb. So dumb. The best.


End file.
